


Dreaming Dread and Desire

by Etharei



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Time, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-11
Updated: 2007-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It becomes- not a regular occurrence, for there appears to be no rhyme nor reason determining which nights Estel will pass in sweet undisturbed repose and which will have him waking in a sweat and some discomfort. But every time it is the latter, he would make his way to the kitchens, where inevitably a certain Elf-lord will be stationed at the table with a pitcher of cold milk.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming Dread and Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Slashy Santa 2006 Fic Swap](http://www.geocities.com/slashysanta/2006decemberfiction.html).
> 
>  **Request:** Something tender, definitely happy ending (I'm a sap) with some hot sex thrown in for good measure. Don't mind a little angst or violence (for example, a battle with orcs).  
>  **Recipient:** Inwë Sáralondë

_Cloth beneath him, stiff with sweat… he could feel the rough ground beneath the layer of fabric, cold, small gritty pieces of dirt finding their way onto his skin, clinging to him… his fingers are grasping at flesh, taut and heated, muscles trembling..._

Estel awakens with a strangled gasp. For long moments he merely sits, fist curling around sweat-soaked sheets, waiting for his heart to steady and his limbs to cease their shaking. Outside the valley is quiet, but he can hear noises from elsewhere in the building; the Last Homely House is a haven for the wise and mighty of the Elves, and it is a private joke between the Peredhil twins and their younger foster sibling that at certain times of the year there are more folk awake during the hours of twilight than when the fruit of Laurelin hangs in the sky. The young heir of Isildur- _fair stars, will he ever get used to thinking of himself as so?_ \- considers attempting to return to sleep, but closing his eyes he can still see the images of his dream, feel the heat and the inhuman smoothness and, dear Eru, the pleasure- and he forces himself out of bed, stumbling towards the end table with its filled pitcher and goblet. The touch of cool water sliding down his throat calms him somewhat, and he’s tempted to empty the pitcher over his head, or perhaps over the still smoldering heat in his groin, and a certain appendage making itself known in a most embarrassing fashion. 

Instead he steps out onto his balcony, relishing the prospect of the night breeze stealing away his desire-induced heat. Unfortunately, the elements don’t seem to be in a cooperative mood on this particular occasion, for the night is unusually warm and the air stubbornly still. After a few frustrating moments he returns inside and dons a light robe on top of his sleeping garments. By this time his unruly manhood has settled back down into innocuous flaccidity, but he still checks himself over for any small sign explaining the reason for his waking state to be something other than restless insomnia; he looks especially for any unnoticed traces of conspicuous fluid. 

Satisfied that he would not be scandalizing any Elf whose path he may chance to cross, Estel opens his door and steps out of his bed chamber. He contemplates his destination for a moment, before deciding on the kitchen, where he could obtain some light refreshment and settle both his stomach and his nerves at the same time. None of the cooks are likely to be awake at this hour, but one of the first things he remembers learning from Elrohir, the younger and wilier twin, is where everything is located in the pantry and the kitchen, and- more importantly- where little things like keys are kept and how certain cabinet doors can be opened if you pressed at the wood just so. 

It turns out that his knowledge of the kitchen schematics is unnecessary tonight, for the kitchen already has an occupant. The young Man’s breath hitches when he espies the shining mane that appears to be made out of thin filaments of gold, the limbs that are amply muscled yet still slender and graceful compared to a Man’s proportions, the powerful presence that Estel would have detected from the hallway had he not been so occupied with his own thoughts. 

Glorfindel turns and looks surprised to see him, though he must have heard his footsteps and discerned which mortal out of the mere handful residing in the Elrond’s home would know of a direct path, passing through a number of servant corridors and empty chambers, straight towards to the kitchen. The normally poised Elf-lord looks a little haggard, if such a word can be used to describe an Elf, but he smiles warmly and beckons Estel closer, indicating the plate of biscuits and blueberry tarts piled upon a plate in front of him, next to a half-empty pitcher of milk. His body automatically obeying one he’d always viewed as his commanding officer even when it was not an order but an invitation that had been given to him, Estel seats himself opposite Glorfindel at the small table, along the way picking up an empty goblet from the assembly of utensils and ware that had been washed and left out to dry after dinner. 

“Milk, Glorfindel?” he says even as he pours himself some, his tone conveying his surprise at the Elf’s choice of late night beverage. He doesn’t remember being served milk after dinner since he was old enough to string his own bow. His eyes pause briefly on Glorfindel’s fair face, but dart away before those twin cerulean orbs can gain a hold on his gaze. 

“It calms me,” Glorfindel explains simply, his melodious Elven voice soft and lacking its usual exuberance. “Do you think it a luxury afforded only to younglings and the wounded and ill?” Estel can sense the lighthearted note in Glorfindel’s voice, but the Elf adds a grin to ensure that the young Man knows his words to be teasing. 

“Nay.” Estel cannot help but grin in return. “It is just that many prefer wine or ale to forget their troubles and escape the twilight restlessness.” 

Glorfindel’s face sobers. “Many do.” He takes a sip of the drink, as if to consolidate his reason for drinking it. “But no amount of it can fully cure me of either ailment, even if I drown myself in it. So I shall settle for this small comfort- at least it will not leave me vulnerable to whatever manner of ridiculous fancy that may cross my mind under the vine’s swooning influence.” 

Estel chuckles into his goblet. “I am fortunate that Elladan and Elrohir are familiar with the tolerance of mortal Men for drink, and had my wine amply watered down the first time I drank it in a public affair. Even so, Elladan had to carry me back to my chambers after the revelry, and I decided to thank him for his efforts by serenading him all the way.” 

“I remember that night,” Glorfindel nods, cheer reappearing on his pale visage. “Lindir remarked that you sang better when intoxicated than other Men this House has had the pleasure of hosting- at least, the tune sounded interesting, even though none of us could actually make out what you were saying.” 

“That is probably for the best,” Estel states, making a face. “I cannot recall what I was singing about, though there was something about the state of Elladan’s boots after a rainfall. And how Hobbits do not wear shoes.” 

The Elf chuckles. “That is significantly tamer than what this House had to endure when both Elladan and Elrohir came of age.” At Estel’s unashamedly interested expression, he grins and leans forward in the manner of all story-tellers before embarking on a delicious tale. 

It becomes- not a regular occurrence, for there appears to be no rhyme nor reason determining which nights Estel will pass in sweet undisturbed repose and which will have him waking in a sweat and some discomfort. But every time it is the latter, he would make his way to the kitchens, where inevitably a certain Elf-lord will be stationed at the table with a pitcher of cold milk. After a few weeks the cook takes to leaving out jars of baked goods and small confections out on the table before retiring for the night. 

“I do not mean to intrude on a personal matter, Glorfindel,” Estel speaks up on one occasion. “But if it will ease you some to speak of what troubles you, I am happy to listen.” 

Glorfindel raises an amused eyebrow at him. “Ah, you are verily a son of Elrond.” For a moment he stares contemplatively at the empty pitcher. “With more patience, in fact; he would have begun his interrogation on the first night. I thank you for your concern, Estel, but it is not something that can be healed. Nor does it trouble me overmuch, and before this year I went for two yen without experiencing it. Elrond has already given me a draught, which I took for a season, but lately I have found that if I slept a little later than norm it troubles me not at all.” 

“But you are here every night.” 

He tilts his head to one side, turning appraising eyes at the young Man. “If that is what is concerning you, then I must confess that the reason for my presence here is more to do with you.” 

Estel blinks, focusing hard on what his waking eyes are seeing in order to ignore the sensual images past his mind. “Why so, Glorfindel?” He knows that the keen senses of the Elf would be able to detect his uneasiness, but as long as its source is not clear… 

“Well, I had hoped that over time you will confess to me the reason for your nightly excursions. I remember that, as a boy, you would seek out the kitchen when you had a dark dream and did not wish to return to sleep. Since your brothers are out on patrol and unavailable for counsel, I thought that perhaps my sympathetic ear may suffice.” 

Estel looks away uncomfortably. “It is not that I do not wish to confide in you, hirnen. I have truly appreciated your company all these nights-“ _Do not think, by the mighty Valar, do not think on what you have just uttered!_ “-and I heartily apologise if I have alarmed you. But my troubles are... very personal.” 

Glorfindel nods, though he can hardly have understood the young Man’s cryptic allusions. “We are all entitled to our secrets and personal troubles. I was merely concerned, as I know that you are still taking in what Elrond has told you of your heritage. You are young yet, especially for one of your blood, and it is no easy thing to be burdened with the future of a people you do not truly know.” 

“I feel it, yes, but it is like a cloak made too large for my shoulders,” Estel admits. “The weight is there, but not wholly on me, not yet. And neither can I move around with it. Yet I find it difficult to sit still.” It is not the whole matter, but he hopes that it is explanation enough for having troubled dreams, because he would rather slit himself with the bread knife than even suggest his suspicions on the reason for his... scarlet conjurations. 

“Hm.” Glorfindel lightly taps the rim of his goblet with a finger. “Methinks there is a possible solution. Before this year you have oft been abroad with the sons of Elrond in their endless errantries, correct?” 

“Since you judged me skilled enough to join them, yes,” Estel replies, curious as to where this is going. 

“And you have not left the House since your 20th birth-day?” 

“Adar thought it prudent to give me a few months to accustom myself to my new identity, before the twins accompany me to join a band of Dúnedain so that I may make myself known to them. I have also begun receiving instruction on administration, and I’ve been making myself useful at the healing house.” 

“Yet for many years you have been a warrior first; the spirit in you is young, far from tiring, and it must chafe to be fettered thus, and so suddenly.” The Elf’s fist thumps the table decisively. “Therefore, if you will suffer my company for a few days, I propose we take a little walking-trip around the Vale.” 

Estel beams at the thought of being outdoors again. “Are you certain, Glorfindel? Surely you have important duties to attend to here.” 

“Naught that cannot keep for a few days,” the Elf assures him. “In fact, I have been considering taking such a trip myself for some time now, as I have not been under the sky for longer than a few hours in months. But the excursion will be even more pleasant if I have company.” 

The young Man hesitates, but just the mention of the open sky has lifted his heart, and he thinks that a few days of honest physical exertion should realign his clearly upset internal equilibrium. If not, then at least come nightfall he will be too sapped of energy to race the path of dreams, and his body will slide easily into the sweet rejuvenating embrace of dreamless repose. 

The next day Glorfindel seeks him out in the healing wing and informs him that Elrond had given his consent. He asks why Estel is looking at him oddly, the young Man replies that so many of their encounters have happened at night lately that he’s quite forgotten how the Elf looks in daylight. Glorfindel’s merry laughter rings down the hall, and a breeze wanders through one of the many windows to dance with a few stray golden strands. 

The young Man laughs also, and wonders if the walking-trip really is a good idea. 

~*~ 

Estel had, of course, explored the valley before. The twins had a number of hiding places that they’ve claimed as their own, usually consisting of a cluster of trees with tightly intertwined branches, though there’s also a small niche in a cliff wall at the far end of the vale that provides good shelter. 

Exploring it with Glorfindel is a far different experience. As they wove through the trees Glorfindel told him of Gondolin; his descriptions of the fountains and the tall buildings peppered with anecdotes about Ecthelion and the other Lords of Houses. He would be in the middle of waxing poetry about Idril’s garden when he’d suddenly segue into the layout of the Seven Gates. Having thought of the Elf-lord as a quiet and contemplative soul for most of his life, Estel feels a little overwhelmed, and marvels at how an Elf who is clearly capable of rivaling Lindir in story-telling manages to stay mostly silent in the Halls of Fire. 

Yet he also finds it surprisingly easy to retain each and every word to pass through Glorfindel’s lips. The Elf’s voice is wonderfully smooth and fluid, seeming to meld in with the sounds of the trees and the forest they’re passing through, but there is a power in them that embosses the words directly into Estel’s mind. Thus is he reminded that, for all his appearance as just another Elf, there is a facet of Glorfindel that hearkens from the youth of the Eldar days, a strength to rival even the Lady Galadriel’s. 

As the first day wears on, it becomes alarmingly apparent that Glorfindel intends to impart onto him as much of Gondolin’s history as he can. Estel stops paying attention to the words, after a fashion, viewing instead the images they conjure in his mind, though even these are hurried- brief glimpses of the Hidden City, snatches of sensation related by another who, in turn, is recalling them from a previous lifetime. 

“As those born after the King’s leaguer can know only of the world that lies within the Gates- which, you would know as a warrior yourself, is perilous if the enemy you will one day battle will most likely come from outside- a tradition began in which a veteran warrior who had lived before the founding of the City would share his knowledge of the wider world with one born inside Gondolin.” 

“That is what you are doing with me,” Estel comments, in more of a statement than a question. He dimly realizes that he’s not too sure where they are, exactly, and feels a little embarrassed by the fact. “That is the real purpose behind this walking-trip.” 

Rather than look sheepish (which Estel isn’t sure a whole-blooded Elf can even do, though the expression decorated his brothers’ faces often enough), Glorfindel smiles at him, clearly pleased. “In a fashion, yes, though I spoke truly when I said that I needed to be in the open air again. Now that you know of your heritage and are beginning to comprehend your destiny, it is important for you to know of history.” He pauses. “Master Erestor has taught you the value of books, of written lore, has he not? But I believe that one should always hear of events from those who lived them, if one can. Personal accounts will always be colored, biased, but they tell you how people are affected by events, how they behave under certain circumstances, and that is something a king must know, if his people are to love him.” In a quieter voice, he adds, “And Minas Tirith is not very unlike Gondolin. Not at all.” 

Estel nods his understanding, nearly tripping over the uneven ground, so focused in his thoughts is he. “But does it not pain you? To speak of Gondolin?” 

A shadow passes over Glorfindel’s face, though it might be because the Sun is momentarily shielded by the leafy boughs of a shapely oak. “A little,” he admits. “But centuries of joy and peace cannot be wholly blighted by a day of fire and ruin, no matter how terrible.” 

The Elf continues on, his words and thought meandering down the great citadel, the busy marketplace, the various Houses and the varying personalities of their Lords. Ecthelion and the House of the Lord of the Fountain is remembered clearest next to Glorfindel’s own; those recollections are tinged with pain, and Estel can see a painful struggle in Glorfindel’s fair face. 

When they halt briefly to rest and eat, Glorfindel sighs and says, “This is taking a greater toll on me than I expected. Tonight, there may be some… consequences, to my reliving these ancient memories.” 

Estel grimaces. “Glorfindel, please, do not pain yourself on my account. I thank you for the glimpse of fair Gondolin; you have brought me closer to her than many mortals, even mighty scholars, can claim. But I would not have you suffer for it.” 

“Nay, it is more important for you to have the knowledge.” When Estel opens his mouth to protest further, Glorfindel sternly says, “I have dealt with the pain for longer than your line has existed, heir of Isildur, You may repay me by remembering it, by being a good King who heeds the omens and warnings sent by the Powers.” He stands up from the fallen tree trunk he’d been sitting on. “Come, I must tell you about the order of ceremony when Turgon held court…” 

~*~ 

They stop for the night near a shallow stream. The rations consist of salted meat and dried fruits, and Estel welcomes them like old friends; as much as he loves the bountiful victuals in the House of Elrond, a part of him thrives on hardiness, and despite his anxiety over his golden companion he feels much rejuvenated by the day’s exertions. 

He’s not surprised when Glorfindel takes the first watch, and it’s only when he’s staring up at the stars, eyes tracing distant _, that he even remembers the problem that has lead him to this outing in the first place. This sends fear lancing through him- he thinks that he’d die of embarrassment if the Elf-lord learned of the true reason his sleep has been troubled. But his body, pleasantly tired from a day spent on his feet, pulls him into sleep before he can worry about it for too long. 

In fact, so dreamless is tonight’s slumber that he doesn’t even notice he’s asleep until his eyes snap open, and he finds himself on his side rather than his back, looking towards the dark landscape of the vale, with the warmth of a dimmer campfire on his back. A look at the Moon tells him that he’d slept longer than he’d intended to, but when he sits up he sees that Glorfindel hasn’t moved from the rock he’d stationed himself on, across the camp from Estel. 

Yawning and picking himself up off the cloak that he’d used as his bedroll, Estel stretches and cautiously makes his way to Glorfindel, feeling better rested than he has in months. He senses that the Elf is deep in thought, though still alert for anything that bears the touch of the Shadow, and is proven correct when Glorfindel’s unmoving body stiffens a little at Estel’s touch. 

“Glorfindel?” he asks quietly. “You did not wake me for my shift.” 

Deep eyes shining with the light of young stars turn towards him; Estel watches the awareness return to them, until the Elf-lord frowns and looks disbelievingly at the Moon, who has completed most of her journey through the shrouded heavens. “Forgive me, Estel, I seem to have lost track of time. Though it eases me that your sleep was untroubled, and it has clearly done you good. You know that the Firstborn do not require sleep as mortals do; if you wish, you may spend the rest of the night abed, so long as you do not tell your brothers I let you do so.” 

The last statement causes Estel to chuckle. “I appreciate it, Glorfindel, but it would be remiss of me to do so, knowing that you are also tired. Even Elves cannot rest properly like this. Go on, my friend, else I shall tell my brothers that you spoil me when they’re not around.” 

He’s relieved to see Glorfindel grin. “Very well, young Estel.” The Elf hesitates. “If... There is a chance that a dark dream will take hold of me, tonight. One does not delve into memories relating to one’s death without the mind exacting a price. Not one word about it-“ he cuts Estel off with a raised hand. “-I deemed it necessary and did it full willing, so the responsibility is all mine. It may not happen, as you slept more soundly than you had when you were a babe. But I must warn you, in case it does. If I begin to speak, wake me by calling to me. I may trash about, so stand where I cannot reach you. Avoid touching me, if you can, for I may attack you, thinking you to be a foe in my dreams.” 

Hardly reassured, Estel promises to do as instructed, and settles himself on the same rock Glorfindel had been sitting on while the Elf laid himself down on the ground over his spread cloak. He seems to sink into sleep within seconds. At first Estel casts worried glances at the prone figure every few moments, but there is no movement aside from a deep and steady breathing, so he slowly relaxes and focuses his attention on their surroundings. Though they are in the valley and well inside Elrond’s sphere of protection, sometimes lone creatures manage to make their way through the realm’s invisible borders undetected. Twice his brothers and he have encountered a Warg in the woods, both times an old half-starved male probably cast out from his pack by a younger alpha male. 

A couple of hours later, Estel’s ears pick up the sound of movement, and scans his environs carefully until he realizes that the source of the noises are coming from behind him, from Glorfindel. The Elf is moving restlessly, still asleep, occasionally whispering something in what sounds like a heavily accented, ancient dialect of Quenya. 

“Glorfindel?” Remembering the Elf’s words, Estel is careful about moving too close, and simply calls out his name. “Glorfindel, you are dreaming.” 

The Elf makes no indication of having heard him. If anything, his movements become more restless, and the expression illuminated by the faint moonlight is one of pain and grief. 

“Glorfindel!” 

Glorfindel begins thrashing, his iterations growing steadily louder and more urgent. Amidst his seemingly random flailing, Estel catches glimpses of familiar sword patterns, just one of the intelligible phrases most repeated sound like “ _Ondolindë_ ” and derivations of the Quenya for “ _Help us!_ ”. 

Later, he will not remember what makes him do it. Perhaps it was an instinct, the healer in him reacting to the thought that Glorfindel may injure himself, so violent were his movements. He’d ventured as close to the warrior as he could without touching, and it is not unimaginable that he’d reflexively blocked a convulsing fist that was about to hit him. It could have even be a simple matter, since he was crouching down, of being pushed a little off-balance by the wind and him reaching out to steady himself, and one of Glorfindel’s limbs got in the way. 

In any case, he feels ice-smooth skin against his own, and suddenly he’s looking at those ancient eyes. What he had thought were twinkling stars now look like fires, many fires burning in the distance, and against his will he’s being pulled towards them, the wind whistling in his ears, carrying the roar of flame and fear and death...

“Ecthelion!” He can barely hear himself above the din, he doesn’t know why he’s even calling. He doesn’t know where he is, everything is covered in blood or soot- this is not the City he knows, this is a different place, and he is trapped. He thinks that his sword must be melded to his hand, for he can’t let go of it. He is injured, likely dying, and the thought doesn’t worry him, because the body he’s in doesn’t look like his own, either. Like the City it is either black or red, with the occasional gleam of metal from what remains of his armour. 

“Fly to Cirith Thoronath!” 

The cry came from above. He looks up, but his vision is blurred, and he can barely make out the winged shapes appearing between the great grey columns of smoke in the sky. 

“To Cirith Thoronath, Golden One! You have a part yet to play in this tragedy.” The wind whistles in his ear; out of the corner of one eye he catches sight of a great wing swerving away. “Fly, as swift as the Grounded can, for you are racing fate herself, and her wind is mighty!” 

_Cirith Thoronath_

The name of that dreadful pass echoes in his ears, and even as he speeds away he knows, sees in his mind the events he’s re-lived over and over again. A brief respite, staring out at the bedraggled line of refugees, then a last dance with his faithful blade, to end in fire, that flame so dreadful it was not yellow and red but black, a black that burns, burns, _burns_... 

Estel returns to himself with a loud gasp. At least, he’s aware of the night, and the waning moon, and the scent of pine. He breathes in the smell of the valley, and nearly chokes when he smells ash and burning flesh. Glorfindel is on top of him, still caught in his death-vision, and Estel thinks that he is still partly in it, for his empty hand is curled around an unseen hilt, and his ears are filled with rushing wind and crackling flame. The Elf-lords hands are gripping Estel’s upper arms, nails digging into his skin, but at least he’s no longer thrashing. 

With a great deal of effort, Estel extracts himself from underneath the Elf. The instant he’s no longer in contact, the sensations stop, and he nearly slumps over in relief. But Glorfindel begins flailing violently once again, this time shouting defiant cries into the night. Estel hesitates but for a moment, before reaching over and grasping the Elf’s arm- 

He can see the Orcs at the edge of his vision, and fights against a welling of despair. He cannot do this, he cannot face both the Balrog and the Orcs, he must choose. He’s willing to die, but dear Valar, let him have the peace of knowing that his death will save others, let his death not be in vain, even if it’s for a single Elf-child. His sword thrums in his hand, thirsty for blood and a fitting end; he cannot decide, until he remembers his last sighting of Ecthelion’s familiar standard, in the square of the King, a moment before it was shrouded by the shadow of Gothmog- 

“Glorfindel!” Estel cries out weakly, shaking the Elf, who at his touch is unmoving and rigid once more. “Please, wake up! It is over, Gondolin sleeps under the Sea!” 

He is at a loss. He knows that the blood of the Dúnedain gives him certain abilities and strengths over other Men, but he has yet to fully understand his own potential, let alone pit himself in a contest of wills against an Elf-lord out of the Eldar Days. His attempts to halt the stream of images outright are battered down like a herd of stampeding Rohirric horses would a wall made out of straw. So he tries to change it, to divert its path, but he can’t think of anything. Can’t think of anything strong enough to counter death, counter the rush of impending oblivion, the dulling of pain and the burning, searing heat...

Burns, burns, burns like fire, making him gasp, his body arching... cloth beneath him, stiff with sweat... he can feel the rough ground beneath the layer of fabric, cold, small gritty pieces of dirt finding their way onto his skin, clinging to him... his fingers are grasping at flesh, taut and heated, muscles trembling, both hard and soft and deliciously slick... the hunger is frightening in its intensity, causing him to whimper and moan at the smallest sensation... 

Estel hears himself moaning for true. His open, gasping mouth is summarily invaded, Glorfindel’s lips sealing around his own, a wet tongue diving into his mouth, greedily exploring and stroking the tender skin. Hands scrabble at his tunic. The young Man hears the sound of ripping fabric, at which he feels a distant trill of alarm, but quickly forgets when a muscled leg deftly parts his and a thigh rubs urgently over the bulge in his groin. 

As quickly as it began, the weight and warmth leave him, and Estel finds himself staring up at the open sky, his heated breath creating a bit of mist in the night air. He turns his head and sees a gasping, wide-eyed Glorfinde on his feet and staring down at him. 

“Great Manwë, what have I done?” the Elf-lord breathes, a look of horror etched onto his pale face. 

Estel swallows, but cannot think of anything to say, not when he himself is still reeling from- well, whatever it was they’d been doing. 

Glorfindel backs away even further, and puts his face in his hands. For a long moment, the only sound between them is their slowing breathing. Finally the Elf whispers, “Estel, I did not- Did I attack you?” 

“No.” His voice comes out hoarse, so the young Man clears his throat and tries again. “Nay, I was trying to wake you by calling you, as you instructed. But you did not wake, and I came closer, and- I don’t know, I must have touched you somehow, and I got pulled into your dream.” 

The Elf nods. “Normally it does not happen, at least not when ‘tis Elrond, the only one who wakes me after such spells. But I suppose he would have protection…” His voice trails off, his eyes glancing away. “I have not had one like that for... since my first days in my second life here, in fact. Mostly I remember isolated pieces, or just relive the final battle at the peak.” 

“I couldn’t stop it,” Estel admits, standing up and brushing himself off. There’s a rip in his tunic. “I think- it is my fault. When I stopped touching you I escaped the vision, but then you would trash about, and I was worried that you would do yourself harm. So I took hold of you and... tried to change the images.” 

Glorfindel blinks at him. “Ah. It makes better sense now.” He peers at Estel inquisitively; it reminds the young Man very much of Elrond when he’s studying a puzzle. “Estel, did these dreams of yours begin after your meeting with Arwen, that day after you entered your 20th summer?” 

Heat blooms on Estel’s face. “Aye.” He blinks. “How did you know of that?” 

“An Elf such as I does not live for as long as I have without great awareness of all that transpires in the house I abide in,” Glorfindel responds cryptically. “Also, she mentioned the meeting to me the next day.” 

“Please, Glorfindel,” Estel says. “It is not that I think of her in that way. I do not know why I dream of such- of such base thoughts-“ 

“Estel,” the Elf stops him with a sigh. “You are a Man. You have lived like an Elf for as long as you can remember, it’s too easy for us to forget that you are not. It is normal for Men to have the dreams and desires that you are having. In fact, I daresay you are a little late in the matter, though your Dúnedain blood may account for that.” 

As a healer, there are few aspects of the body and its functions that can embarrass Estel. This, he decides, is one of them. “I shall trust your word on that, Glorfindel, but it still shames me.” 

“Do not worry over it,” the Elf says with a reassuring smile. “It is only a natural phase in your growth. When we return, I shall teach you some relaxation techniques.” 

“Thank you, my friend,” Estel replies with obvious relief. 

“No, it is I who must thank you.” Glorfindel absently pushes a lock of golden hair away from his eyes. “You stopped the dream before- before the end. The ordeal is terrible enough with discontinuous visions, but tonight... I could feel everything. Everything. Nienna, I dreaded the dreams, but I had forgotten how much I’ve been spared. If you weren’t here… fortunate are the Second Children of Iluvatar, for being so grounded in the present.” 

“Glorfindel, may I ask you something?” Estel hesitantly speaks up. “It is very personal, and I do not actually know the right words.” 

The Elf stills. “It is about what happened... when you changed the dream, is it not?” 

“Aye.” 

“I am sorry. You invoked something in me that has been dormant for an Age. I was not expecting it, but it will not happen again.” 

“Is that why you have not taken a wife?” 

A pause. “Aye.” 

“Oh.” Estel goes quiet, turning the thought over in his head. “I have heard rumors, but did not think that I knew anyone who has such… preferences.” 

“There are more of us than you think. But it is a subject not spoken of, at least in this Age.” 

The young Man tilts his head to one side. “Was it common in Gondolin?” 

Glorfindel smiles at that. “Probably no more common that it is here, but there we had no need to hide.” 

He doesn’t know why, but something about Glorfindel’s tone incites him to move towards the Elf. “You and Ecthelion-?” 

“Aye, though it was more of an extension of our friendship. He heart lay with one who wouldn’t have him, and I gave him what comfort I could.” 

“Why is such a thing less accepted here?” 

Those bright eyes blink at him in surprise. “You are not disgusted?” 

Estel frowns. “Why should I be?” 

“Some claim it as being unnatural.” 

“Orcs are unnatural. Parents burying their children is unnatural. I suspect some will claim that the nature of my dreams is unnatural.” Estel finds himself very close to Glorfindel, without the memory of how he got there. “But all my life you have been a wise mentor and a true friend. You also died defending your people. Who rouses your passion is your business.” 

The Elf closes his eyes briefly, and Estel catches a glimpse of moisture on his lashes. “If only others are as wise and accepting as you, Estel. Elrond named you truly.” He seems to notice the young Man’s proximity for the first time. “You should close your eyes and make use of the few hours to dawn. I daresay I will not be finding any more rest tonight.” 

“Glorfindel.” It comes out as a whisper, and Estel realizes just how much their voices had dropped over the course of the exchange. “I do not know how to say this. Those dreams I’ve been having-“ 

“-I will not tell a soul, if that is your worry.” The young Man finds himself strangely fixated on the Elf’s moving lips, particularly their moist appearance despite the dry air. “Elrond is a dear friend and my liege-lord, but I daresay this is a matter between the two of you.” 

“At first, I did dream of her,” Estel continues, unconsciously leaning closer. “But since that first night in the kitchen- the visions that tortured my nights held not ebony locks, but hair the colour of ripe wheat, the colour of the noon Sun.” 

For a frozen moment they stand there with locked gazes. 

“Estel,” Glorfindel murmurs, pulling away. “You do not- we cannot-“ 

The young Man inhales shakily. “Forgive me. I do not know why I presumed you would- you, a veritable legend among Elves alone. Please, forget the senseless nattering of a young, ill-mannered Man the likes of-“ 

Further speech is effectively halted by the descent of Glorfindel’s soft, graceful lips onto his. Letting out a whimper as he’s pressed against the powerful yet slender body of the Elf, Estel numbly throws his arms around the Glorfindel’s shoulders. The Elf’s tongue engages his in a heated duel, the strength and hunger fueling it far unlike anything he’s experienced with women; each skilful delving causes a lance of pleasure to spear through his core. All his senses are heightened, so that the slide of his fingers through the Elf’s luscious golden mane feels like a deliciously cool contrast against the heat building up between their bodies. 

“Are you sure of this, Estel?” Glorfindel groans into his ear when they finally separate, both breathless and flushed. 

In answer, Estel pulls off his half-undone tunic and shirt and pulls the Elf to himself again, hands scrabbling over Glorfindel’s clothing. He hisses when the Elf is similarly undressed, their bare chests pressed against each other. He glides his palm over the other’s well-defined pectorals, and dimly notes the wide difference between their bodies- Glorfindel’s is slender and fair and with only a sparse covering of hair, while his is more muscled and already decorated by faint scars and generously coated by dark curly body hair. He pauses, a little ashamed of his mortal form, but Glorfindel only takes in his body with a hungry look and bends to take a dark nipple into his mouth. 

Estel cries out, arching into the warmth and the light grazing of teeth. Glorfindel pushes him down, and though neither of them seem to be paying attention to their surroundings, the young Man feels the cloth of their discarded cloaks on his back when he lies down. As the hot, wet mouth switches to the other nipple, the sensations are so similar to ones in his dreams that Estel involuntarily moans at the thought of the pleasure to come. Speaking of which, the slide of smooth shining locks over his heated torso almost undoes him. 

He has time only for a short gasp when his breeches are opened and pushed down, exposing his stiff, weeping flesh to the cold air, and then he’s letting out an unrecognizable howl as Glorfindel takes him into his mouth. He’s prevented from arching up by the callused hands gripping his hips, so instead he grips a fistful of the Elf’s hair, moaning and whimpering his pleasure at every slide of those lips up and down his shaft. He is further reduced to incoherency when Glorfindel takes his not inconsiderable length all the way in, a feat the young Man hadn’t thought was physically possible. He wonders if it is possible to lose one’s sanity through pleasure when Glorfindel’s throat tightens around the sensitive crown of his shaft. 

So embroiled is he in what the Elf is doing to him that he barely notices when a finger makes its way to his opening, tracing around the puckered rim. The digit, slick on something, suddenly begins steadily pushing in, past the guardian ring and- Valar, it’s inside him, and there’s a slight pinch but Glorfindel’s head is bobbing furiously above his groin, repeatedly engulfing the engorged muscle in wet, searing heat, the fire in him growing inexorably towards a mind-obliterating explosion, and there’s a second finger in his channel, pushing the tight inner walls apart and touching him right _there_ \- 

“GLORFINDEL!” Estel keens as it comes, the great wave of pure pleasure, starting as a tingle down at his toes and growing like an avalanche until it spills out of him in a great rush of heat and fluid. He drops his jaw in shock when he sees the Elf swallow around his softening member, letting not a drop escape. The finger is extracted, and he lets out a whimper at the loss. 

The golden Elf crawls up his heaving and sweaty body, his lips red and glistening so invitingly that Estel promptly kisses them, tasting himself in the other’s mouth. His hand, still shaking from the force of his climax, fumbles about until he manages to unlace and push down the Elf’s breeches. He groans when he feels Glorfindel’s steel-stiff hardness rub against his thigh; taking it in hand, he strokes it, covering it with the liquid seeping from its tip. The silky appendage between his legs grows as it’s filled with blood once more, and he spreads his legs invitingly. 

“Estel,” the Elf-lord whispers, sucking on the young Man’s neck. “Are you sure? This is not something to be done lightly.” 

“You have tortured me for two score nights, Glorfindel,” groans Estel, arching back to expose more of his neck to the Elf’s hungry mouth. “And, as you said, I am no Elf. I do not have the luxury of time. You were the first to teach me the sword; I wish for you to be my first in this, also.” When Glorfindel continues to look hesitant, Estel pushes himself up and bites his earlobe as he whispers, “Do it, o golden one. Scour us both of our nightly demons.” He tightens his grip on Glorfindel’s pulsing shaft. “Enter me, pierce me, impale me with your thrumming broadsword until I beg for mercy.” 

The deep blue eyes darken to a bright indigo. With a growl Glorfindel pushes him back down, covering the Man’s body fully with his own taller form. He raises Estel’s legs so that they sit on deceptively slender Elven shoulders, and a hand lowers to massage the taut buttocks, positioning the spongy top of his member at the entrance. He pauses one last time, wordlessly seeking out Estel’s eyes. Whatever he finds in them seems to satisfy him, because he slowly bends and pushes forward. Estel unconsciously holds his breath as he feels himself being breached, entered. The cursory preparation left him still too tight, but fortunately he’s still mostly relaxed from his first orgasm. Glorfindel’s expression is intent and more than a little strained from the effort of holding back, but he murmurs comforting words to the young Man, urging him to relax. 

Both of them breathe out in relief when he’s finally fully sheathed. Estel takes a moment to wonder at this new feeling, this strange fullness that feels alien at first but which his body accommodates with surprising swiftness. He beams his wonderment at it, and Glorfindel answers with a relieved smile. The Elf experimentally pulls out and thrusts back in, and Estel moans lightly at the sensation; but on the next thrust, Glorfindel hits something in him that makes him gasp loudly. 

Grinning, Glorfindel’s thrusts grow surer and faster, always aimed at that pleasure-inducing spot. Quickly it becomes difficult to distinguish their moans from one another, the primal duet punctuated by the wet slapping of flesh against flesh. From the state of Glorfindel’s arousal even before he entered him, Estel had thought the Elf to be close, but Glorfindel waits for him to climax a second time, back arching off the gritty ground, before letting out a tremendous roar and embedding himself to the hilt as hot liquid gushes into Estel. 

They lie on the ground, panting, sweaty limbs entwined, Glorfindel resting his head on Estel’s shoulder and idly playing with the hair on his chest. 

“What happens now, Glorfindel?” the young Man finally ventures to ask. 

The Elf answers slowly, though he must have been pondering the same question. “We will finish this walking-trip, and my instruction of you in the ways of Gondolin. I daresay I will not be troubled by dreams like I was tonight, now that you know how to divert it.” 

That draws a chuckle from Estel. “And then?” 

“We return home.” Glorfindel sighs. “Estel, sharing our bodies makes us closer friends than many have the privilege of experiencing. We are tied together now, though even before this I would have stood beside you in battle even against the Dark Lord himself. Yet neither of us feels love for the other beyond friendship. And if anything, mortal Men are even less accepting of this form of intimacy between those of the same sex.” 

Estel is quiet for a long while. “I wish it weren’t so. And it will not be so difficult to grow to love you, since I already do.” 

“I know, young one, but that is your youth and your hot blood speaking. In time you will see where your heart is meant to reside, despite the grief it will cause many. In fact, you already know- it was she, after all, who awakened the fire of passion inside you.” 

The young Man presses a kiss on Glorfindel’s temple, chaste and sweet. “Thank you, Glorfindel. For being the first to know me in this fashion, for being a friend, for enduring pain to save me from it. I will never forget, and Gondolin will be remembered on Middle-earth for as long as Elendil’s line shall live.” 

“Then it was worth it.” Smiling, the Elf runs his fingers through Estel’s coarser brown locks. “I love you, too, Estel. You will make a fine King, when the time comes.” 

After a moment, Estel asks, “Did you know Eärendil as a child?” 

“Aye, though he was very young when Gondolin fell. But I knew Idril since she was a child, and grew to be friends with Tuor. Why?” 

“Well, that child you knew is looking over us right now. And he’s _twinkling_.” 

Glorfindel’s musical laughter carries over the valley, borne by a light breeze. Far away, in his domain above the land, Gwaihir looks up curiously at the faint sound, a tiny note in the many tidings brought to him by the wind, yet it resonates with something in his blood, something remembered from a time before his. It gladdens him, and when he settles back down to sleep he dreams of pleasant thermals over a shining city with seven gates and a tall tower, and a flash of gold beneath the Sun.

  
_~ Finis ~_   



End file.
